


The Minotaurus

by Gjak



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Angst, Dark, Dubcon Kissing, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Love/Hate, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Obsessive Behavior, Plot, Sexual Violence, Violence, Violent Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 10:51:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8246276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gjak/pseuds/Gjak
Summary: That was a peculiar night when Joker decided he would take that bullet for Bruce Wayne.Not the best of decisions he ever made, albeit a terrible one, to be honest. But absolutely no regrets! The look on Wayne’s face was hilarious – the bubbling giggles gurgle out the oxygen between his bloody lips.





	

**Author's Note:**

> *1. "Because I am a terrible person who writes terrible things..."  
> *2.5. Roughly a 3 chapter work, if my editing is adequate enough, hopefully it won't take an eternity to edit the other two chapters.  
> *3. Thank you for all the readers, you are wonderful.
> 
> **(Note added 04/11/16)  
> Christ, when I said the editing might take a decade, I didn't actually mean an eternity. Sorry for the late updating, but thank you so much for the encouraging feedback (and cute little kudos) some left for this piece. Honestly didn't expect much, so, I'm pleasantly surprised.   
> Seeing some diabolic typos and errors all over, so I've been fixing some up. I've sold my laptop a few weeks ago, and it took some time for me to get a new one, hence the reason why it's so painfully slow to get the next chapter up. Anyhow, thanks, to everyone.

 

 

 

 

 

That was a peculiar night when Joker decided he would take that bullet for Bruce Wayne.

Not the best of decisions he ever made, albeit a terrible one, to be honest. But _absolutely no regrets_! The look on Wayne’s face was hilarious – the bubbling giggles gurgle out the oxygen between his bloody lips.

Oh, it’s cold down here. But he doesn’t regret it, not one bit.

A million times someone wanted him dead. A thousand times someone tried to kill him. A hundred times someone took a shot at him. Ten times someone managed to land a bullet. Just one time when he was sure this was the end. Some fool’s poetic justice for trying to drown him under the Gotham River, a bullet hole gaping through his shoulders.

Of course, the water doesn’t kill him. But the clown is feeling generous today, he lets the river sink him down, weighed by his suit and metal edges. The night lights are eerie from here, all blurry, with no substance through the rippling water. He can see his own blood clouding away like a creamy fume.

Drowning feels like home. It’s almost tempting to breathe the water in. There is no oxygen in the water, and he’ll end up drinking his own blood anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

Ah _, Jesus Christ_ , human body, so brittle and prone to pain. As much as he enjoyed a little sting now and then to wake up his dead mind, bullets are barbaric. _So, primeval_ , his bloodied lips are scowling at the brutal pain. Joker wonders if it crushed a bone, because that would just be so damn cliché. And he hates obvious things with passion.

_You snarling in my face won’t help anything, darling._

He mocks, arms jerking away from the oppressing grip. Right now, his body is fighting a futile war with his mind. His physical matter can’t care less about how giddy he feels when he meets those steel blue eyes. The gaping, bullet ridden shoulder cares more about keeping the aggressive Kevlar hands away from his injured appendage.

“Why?” The caped shadow demands, his voice dangerous. “Why did you kill her?”

Oh, those harsh barks and growls. It almost feels like a dog snapping its jaws at him. Then again, bats did look like miniscule mongrels with wings sometimes. It would have been funnier if the Bat wasn’t shaking him so hard that it hurt. The blood seeps through his sleeves, drenching the purple suit with ugly crimson.

“You, are, most certainly welcome, sweetheart.”

Joker manages to choke his syllables out, forced and strained under the harsh grip of his predator. He lets the cold sweat run down his cheeks, along with the grimy water from the river soaking his green locks. Batman clenches his throat tighter.

“Why did you kill her?” He asks again.

So, stubborn, and so predictable, it almost annoys him. Joker lets it slide, knowing that he too, can be annoyingly predictable sometimes, occasionally.

“You know the logic of madness, Bats.” The clown murmurs, spindly fingers tugging at the air. Like conducting a masterpiece, his words dance with them. “Whatever you say, it will always be conceived as a part of your insanity. The question is,”

_Are you willing to believe I’m sane enough to get your answers? Or will you say I’m insane, and take all of what I say into mindless rambles?_

Joker can feel him rage. It’s cold and frozen, igniting all the same. His anger is a double-edged blade, sharp and polished. It’s a beautiful flaw of his, and the clown _loves him for it_. He _adores_ him for it.

A smile cracks upon his pale face.

“Would you really believe me, if I had a reason to kill?”

Batman feels his knuckles cracking as soon as he lets it swing. His fist whips at the paler mask of grins and mirth until it turns into an uglier shade of red and purple. Joker laughs away the violence, his body stumbling down lower to the ground. When his legs give up and allow his body to fall, the two vicious arms gnawing at his collars are what remained to hold up his weight.

He sags against them, clinging to his armour and cape, desperate not to become a ragdoll. The fever is blinding. His tongue scathes over his mouth to swallow all the blood and bile erupting from his wounds.

“Feel better?” Joker muses, almost serenely.

Batman succumbs back into his silence. A looming shadow over a blood soaked clown.

“Why did you take the bullet?”

The question sounds like a bullet itself. Only, through the hundred times he was shot at, Joker became adequate at dodging the line of fire. So, he grins, in a way that a snake would flicker his tongue. A crocodile smile. It hardens the grip on his throttled neck.

“I already told you the answer.”

And he did. He doesn’t like repeating himself like a broken record. Stories get boring after you say it twice.

“Whatever I say-”

“…Will always be conceived as a part of my insanity.” Batman finishes.

Joker flashes his fangs at the response, a hoarse croak of a laughter escaping his lips. Bat boy was playing the game now. Isn’t this fun? The fire is back again. They’ll take the first steps with a low swing, keep them steady until the beat hastens.

And then, and then we will jive. This is a fun dance, see.

 

* * *

 

 

Two days after Jules Herring fired her gun at Bruce Wayne, the board of Wayne Enterprises decide they do not want to press any charges.

Who will they charge anyway, her dead corpse? Or perhaps her husband, who was sitting in a coma for two years? They can’t press charges against her children either. She had two, her older son, and his baby sister who will never see the face of her mother now.

The supervising director of Wayne steelworks has a lot of things to say on the matter, but Bruce makes his words scarce enough for them to be final. He doesn’t want to press charges. His company will stay dormant. The attorney doesn’t mind; he has his share of the ham in neat boxes of cash that arrived into his office that morning.

“But Mister Chairman, the woman shot you in front of hundreds. I really don’t see how the public can-”

“You need to be thankful,” Bruce whips around, towering over the older man with a dark look in his eyes. “I’m not calling a meeting to discuss your retirement.”

He slams the door in the director’s face, startling the secretary who just happened to pass by him with her files. His expression dares her to ask what was wrong. It discourages the office worker from questioning what just happened.

“Your requested files, Mister Wayne.” She pipes up, handing him the papers and excusing herself out. Bruce doesn’t respond, a lot of things lingering in his mind to play the charming person.

He sorts through them carelessly, already knowing half of what was written on the incident two days ago. This, this was just a reminder. A reminder of what will become a part of his failure. There is a woman headlined in the news, Jules Herring, mother of two, forty-three. She has seen better days, before her husband fell into a coma.

Winston Herring, a low-class steelworker. Worked for his part in the Gotham landscape relocation project that started three years ago. It finished last December, but not without the sacrifice of three hard-working men who suffered a construction accident two years back. It wouldn’t have happened if they moderated a responsible construction planner who knew what he was doing.

Herring was one of the men who ended up in the hospital after the accident, leaving his penniless wife to fight for their case when the director blatantly tried to cover it all up, afraid of his mistakes discrediting him in the board and threatening his position within the company. And corporate snakes are, villains, like always.

A whole year Jules Herring spent to fight her lawsuit. Borrowed thousands of dollars from all the big bad after the bank decided she was an unreliable client. Knee deep in debt, her case was dismissed. It left her broken and desperate, desperate enough to send her requests through threats. The director clocked up all her insignificant ramblings, deeming her ‘just another Gotham lunatic’.

Until she finally pulled the trigger at Bruce Wayne.

 

What the entire situation needed was a little bit of attention. Just a slight amount of attention would have stopped all of it from happening. Bruce grips the papers hard between his fingers, nails digging into his own fists.

If he paid attention to the human resources department, his hiring managers, the accident wouldn’t have happened. If he cared to see to it that his accidental compensation funding was being paid to the right person, the Herring’s wouldn’t have been desperate. Just even a tiny thought of the family and checking back on them would have prevented this from ever happening.

But he didn’t. Why?

Because he was busy being Batman.

And the reality mauls at him until he can feel his insides bleeding and squealing like a struck pig.

He failed. And all he can remember now, is the face of Jules Herring plummeting to her death just as Joker stood over her stiffening body, a bloodied knife in his hand.

 

* * *

 

 

Batman doesn’t know why he went back for the clown.

That night, near the docks, behind the alleyways, he saw the clown crawling into the shadows with his nails. He followed the blood trails, leading him into the darkest of corners where the pale mess sat, curled up in his blood and broken bones. The cowled man eyes the knife abandoned on the ground with wary. The blood is still there, crusted on the edges like sick dirty pieces of sin.

Batman doesn’t know why he let Joker go.

The pale man grinned back over his shoulders, limping away with his broken ankles. Tonight, tonight he was a little too damaged to be manhandled back into Arkham. Batman sees him go, until his vibrant presence disappears -like magic- into the darkness.

Batman doesn’t know why he was looking for him again, this night.

They meet on the rooftop, as if they promised a long time ago they would be there. Joker lets his boot heels click on the concrete surface, like a cat chiming his leash bell. The freezing breeze sifts through his wild green hair, covering a part of his badly bruised eye.

“Your wings look a little tattered. Not feeling up and energized for some crime vanquishing tonight, honey?”

Joker sings, between his stuck-up smile. He’s still limping, and Batman notices. The two shadows walk up into the other’s presence. Only just close enough to step over the line.

“No.” The knight replies, after a long heavy silence. “Not tonight.”

His voice sounds tired. Too damn tired, to care that he was admitting it. Joker frowns, realising that it wasn’t just a smart comeback coming from the Bat. He was genuinely tired, and the clown blinks emptily up at the dark cowl.

“Poor Robin needs a raise then.”

Batman sighed. It sounded strangely like he laughed, but it disappeared before Joker can even tell it apart.

The night is longer when the sky darkens, drifting clouds blanketing away the moon at their leisure. Fog won’t clear until morning, and all they can see across the city are the blinking sky scrapers towering over the landscape. Batman stands behind the clown, watching him dangle his lean legs in the air over the railing.

“They’ll hate you anyway, one way or another.” Joker offers, smiling affectionately down at Gotham.

“I never asked to be loved.”

“I know.”

 “They can hate me.  They can hate all they like if they need something to hate.”

Bruce allows the white hand on the hem of his cape, the fingers curling around the material as if trying to catch him back.

“Hate can give a person the reason to go on.”

No. He never asked to be a hero. He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t an idol. Long ago, a man learned to accept a few things about the world and its people. He accepted Gotham. He accepted the crooked paintings of her faceless monsters.

Even the police will never fully trust him, a man who works outside the law, hidden under a cowl. They don’t know what dictates his actions, they don’t know what fuels his motive, and they don’t have faith in his agenda. Asking for the people to take him as a human being was beyond rich. This was accepted a long time ago.

And Jules, well, Jules was a nail. A sharp little nail, hammered down by the force of nature. He saw her baby in the ward, being handed to her aunt, whose eyes were all red from sorrow. Then there was the other man, her son. Tobias Herring.

Without his mask, Bruce Wayne stood in the gaze of her son. The long, harsh stare of his amber brown eyes. And Bruce immediately knew- they hated him.

And those eyes were the reminder of his burden. Each and every single burden of his failure burned in his memory, and the helplessness of his naked face without a mask washes over his steel thoughts. The Ripple-effect of his actions, the doubt, of whether he was doing the right thing, the dilemma- the regret- the agony of choosing to go on this path, knowing, it was his mistake for _not being able to do anything_. For _letting it happen_.

Tonight, he is tired. He is, damn tired.

“Batsy darling, you have no idea what hate tastes like.”

Batman hears the other giggle, fingers crawling up higher to his cloak. They’re the spiders, making their way up his body. He drags the dark knight down, body uncurling. He lets Joker reach up, his arms over his shoulder and lowering his neck. It was almost an embrace.

Those green eyes are poisonous to an extent where he feels a sting just by meeting them.

“You’re oblivious Bats.” Joker murmurs, closer into his face. Batman lowers down, his shadow caving in.

“And you’d know?” The Bat asks his questions. And he doesn’t want to hear the answer.

But Joker breaks into a wide smile, knowing this would end worse than it began.

“Sure I do.” The clown answers, seconds away from his parted lips. “It tastes like,”

And they bite. Lips on another, teeth clashing, blood pulsing madly away while they taste the blood soaking through their tongues. Batman pulls in closer, feeling the sharp fangs intruding the insides of his burning mouth. Cold fingers pull him down by the edges of his thick cape, the material looming over and covering the clown like he was something precious to be hidden away. Gloved hands tangle themselves into the green locks of hair, wild and bristling at the damaging bites they call a kiss. He loses the air through his lungs, the clown jerking at the oxygen being sucked out of his throat.

They pant through their garbled grunts, thinking perhaps asphyxiation might be an easier way out of this.

Who knows who broke first, because for all they care, they’re both broken anyway. The sentiment makes Batman feel darkly humorous, as he stands there bent upon the clown with his reddening lips, a stray thumb pressing down the split wound to make them bleed harder.

“Hate tastes a little like you.” Joker whispers, as he presses his lips up hard against the offending finger. Batman watches the blood running down, pooling neatly at the edge of his pale chin before becoming a mess on the floor. “And pearls.”

_Pearls._

The city sleeps silently today. The Bat is the first to walk away. Leaving the pale rogue sprawled on his side above the cold concrete. Joker giggles, washing away the taste in his mouth by biting down on his fingers until he hears the bones crack.

 

* * *

 

 

There is a cure for being sane. They’re called drugs, alcohol, and sex.

Sometimes when the world doesn’t make sense anymore to stay sane, you choose to go crazy along with the world. The alcohol comes first, numbing who you used to be, drawing out who you are. The drugs hammer you down into another world, a world where things don’t need to make sense. You’re happy there. Just enough to scream and cry when it all makes sense again after you wake. And then, there is the sex. The sex is beautiful.

Only sometimes, it wasn’t.

 

 

The night after the monsoon finally clears, Batman finds an unconscious Joker dying in an empty warehouse, reeking of musk, blood, and sex.

_Smile and the world smiles with you, cry and you cry alone._

That is what the devil said. Joker never got the gist and details of it. Sanity was a cheap deal to cry about anyhow. And if the drugs didn’t wear off soon, he was sure his head was going to split into two. _Now wouldn’t that be funny_.

So, he laughed, only until Batman reaches out to choke the breath out of his chuckles. The Bat looks pissed, so for once, Joker wants to be nice and stay quiet for him while he drives. Besides, he didn’t fancy another punch landing on his face, no, when his face was already broken. He does wonder if something broke, because it hurts where it shouldn’t. A little too much.

“Who did this?”

The detective asks, following his stiff silence. His voice drops like a pointy icicle slinging down a crevice. Joker slurs, eyes groggy and bruised red.

“Damned if I know. I’m just as much curious as you are.” Because, he really, was genuinely curious.

The clown jerks in his seat for a few seconds before adjusting himself into a comfortable position. He looks defensive. All curled up like a ball. And the sight of it makes Batman scowl. He can see the ugly bruises blooming around the pale neck, and the soft scarlet is sickening.

“Used really good stuff though,” Joker mutters, sniffing his wrists. He licks the needle holes punctured into his skin. “It’s not aphrodisiac.”

“Heavy drugs?”

“It feels, wee bit different from our usual harmless jizz.”

It tastes a little off, but it was something his system recognized. Which was, never a good thing, familiar things were always bad news. He emits a growl beneath his throat, a wounded predator trying to burn the acid out of his veins. His nerves still feel like they’re stinging bees, and his thighs feel raw on the inside. It’s far from pleasant.

Joker bursts out laughing next to Batman, who has his eyes stuck to the window ahead as he drives aggressively.

“They sabotaged my recipe.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“It. Is. So. I mean, what kind of demented reprobate decides to make a fuck drug out of Joker venom?” _Ha, ha_ , he goes. It’s a rhetorical question, and the clown is only half serious about it. Apparently, he finds this hilarious.

“Now I really want to see his face.”

“What’s the lead?”

The Bat sounds sour. Half of it has to do with the blame, Joker’s pretty sure. He’s adorable when he does that.

“Oh I’ve got leads alright.” The clown mumbles back. “Hope you don’t mind daddy not sharing all the details with you.”

“Joker.”

The name makes Joker brace for the impact. He waits for the barking, the cold accusing tones and stifling blames. The next string of harsh words that point at him with his bland black and white logic, for him to start going off in his _it’s for the good of Gotham_ nonsense that he oh so loves.

What he didn’t expect was the silence.

The righteous vigilante, too silent in his brooding shadows. Joker peeks over his shoulder, above at the stiff faced Bat. Who just looks, incredibly, angry.

 

* * *

 

 

The extent of pain is a rather strange concept.

Yes, there was an old man who said that. Some time ago, can’t remember exactly when, but said it, definitely. He remembers the old crook, a scar across his cheeks, owner of a damn big brothel, probably, he can’t quite recall. There was a very enticing painting hung at the entrance, Egon Scheile’s painting, a woman with a fleshy asset, her bare-naked skin filling the portrait.

Between the satin and velvet, the perfume never got to killing him, because the musk was always stronger. Everything there was filled with stench, blood, tears, semen and… pearls. Pearls, there were pearly whites, red lips, stockings, tangling bodies, belly buttons. Screams, moans, grins, smiles, breasts – a dead woman in the bath tub –

Joker tumbles back, choking up the scented water. He splashes around, back in reality, confused. There is a pair of deep blue eyes locking onto him, and he recognizes that face. Bruce Wayne, what a delightful surprise. He doesn’t seem delighted though, what a shame. The man stands there, a towel in his hands, expression unreadable.

“Don’t drown in my bathroom.” He states, voice dry. “Alfred complains enough about the ghosts as it is.”

Joker giggles, it never sounds like a joke when he says it. His Bats always was a little too tight on the humour round, and Alfred probably wasn’t joking when he complained about it to the young Wayne. A house like Wayne’s, who knows what died underneath their soil.

“How long have you been standing there?” The clown asks.

“Long enough to see you drown in your sleep.”

Joker shrugs at the answer. The water was still warm, and it feels good. A little difference from the usual frozen water and rain does do wonders for the mind and soul. And besides, Bruce Wayne had an amazing Jacuzzi.

He splatters at the water like a dolphin, for a few seconds before turning his body over to his back. Joker lies still, sighing deeply as he lets the lean body melt with the water, head resting limp on his shoulder. The steam never clears. They make the beads of warm water run down his hollow cheeks. It creates an ominous scene.

“This certainly beats Arkham.”

Bruce doesn’t respond, verbally. He instead, puts down the towels beside the rack.

“Darling, you’re staring.”

Joker murmurs, eyes still closed. His lashes are still, Bruce can see his rib cage underneath the cloudy water. The bones, the edge, the fleshy crevice. The clown isn’t startled when an arm reaches in, grabbing his neck and pulling it around. It’s gentle enough not to feel rough, but it’s also rough enough not to feel gentle.

Joker allows the hand, the grip, the eyes that study his bare scars and fresh wounds running down his body. The scathing burns on his spine, an angry red mark flowering above his hip bones. His legs twitch under the water, when a finger probes at the bite mark across his collar.

“Who was it?”

Wayne sounds too much like Batman at that point. Joker lazily opens his eyes, half of his pupils hidden underneath his heavy lids and tranquil lashes. Bruce wasn’t looking at him, his ocean blue iris still stuck on the bullet scar wrapping his shoulder blades.

“You’re getting good.” The clown replies, thoughtful. “At repeating your questions. I’m beginning to think it’s your personality trait.”

“You never give me a reason to believe you.”

It almost sounds like a grand old accusation. Almost gold, Joker thinks. Except Bruce Wayne was being dead serious, and it bothers him, to some extent.

“What would I possibly gain, from lying to you about this?”

And he feels like a villain when Bruce can’t answer. Joker sniffs, tearing the hand away from his neck. He holds onto them, tangling his spindly fingers between Wayne’s own. The clown draws him close. A cinder sparks a glint in his eyes.

“Why are you so curious, baby?”

Bruce doesn’t pull back. He stays there, staring into the greens, expressionless. Joker whispers the poison into his ears, pulling his hand closer.

“Tell me. Tell me why you’re so curious. Tell me why you want to know who fucked me.”

Oh, it’s a snake, a remorseless snake, who’s laughing at the entire façade like the curtain call has come early. Joker reaches up, his wet arms drenching the white shirt on Bruce Wayne’s back. He warps his arm around the man’s neck, pulling him down as if he wants to drag the both of them down into hell together. Bruce’s knuckles turn white, on the edge of the porcelain tub. He wonders if hell hurts less than here.

“He was,” Joker blinks, head cocking to one side, “ _a volatile lover_.”

 _Like all crooks, I suppose_. Bruce feels the other rest his chin on his shoulder, breathing in the musk. The cold shivers burn on his skin, when he feels the naked lips nuzzling the hem of his neck.

“I think he wanted me to cry.” The clown goes on, almost like he was dozing off again.

Then he remembers the sharp pain. Sharpest he felt in a long time. The burns, the raw stings, “And, like you know. I’m not good at crying. Tears aren’t my _forte_.”

The groping, the lashing, the pounding.

“The only way he knew how to make someone cry was violence. Like all criminals, see.”

Joker purrs into Bruce’s skin, fingers crawling up the man’s neck as they slowly release his hands. Bruce feels the heat where they touch. They boil. And steam.

“And. Violence. Is. Terrifying.”

The emphasis strikes down like a blow. Bruce is strangely quiet. All too quiet to feel normal. Joker doesn’t dare peek at his face, because a deep strangled something inside his head was warning him with a frown. _No, don’t look._

“You ask your who and why, Brucie, but the facts don’t change.”

His pale arms reach out, locking the man into a warm, stifling embrace. Joker holds him, holds his head close to his body. He drawls, all of what he has, and disguises them like casual words as Bruce relaxes in resignation within his arms.

“I was too busy getting fucked out of my mind to focus on something like his face.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jules has an older sister. A plump round woman with high cheekbones, she doesn’t look a thing like her younger sister, and doesn’t share the gaunt charisma the Herring’s have. But she does share their hard, amber brown eyes. The woman hates Bruce’s presence in her sister’s funeral, he can tell by the way she spat at his feet.

Bruce doesn’t say anything. He tries to tear his eyes away from the small little baby girl cooing up at him. The man makes his way out of the few people left in the lobby, peeling away from his growing headache. His suit is the richest one out of all of them, and they, they hate his money.

“Don’t mind them.”

The voice comes, sullen and dull. But it’s not hostile, at least friendly enough to make Bruce stop and turn around. He knows that face. Amber brown eyes, dry brittle brunette, he looks just like his mother. Tobias Herring.

“They’ll come around. I know it’s not your fault.”

Bruce doesn’t know his age. The man looks young, but the tired creases and lines on his face suggest otherwise. He’s not sure how to address him, and the usual charm in his persona picks an inconvenient time to disappear. Bruce can’t blame himself, it was a sunny funeral. It feels off.

“Mister Herring.” The young Wayne acknowledges.

“Please,” the man smiles, a very tired smile. “Call me Toby.”

They make small talk. The man isn’t straining to be in Bruce’s presence, and Bruce can’t decide if he should disappear, just for the man’s sake. He looks different from the last time, less spiteful, more fatigued, and he seems at peace. Peace with whatever he looked at Bruce Wayne with in their last encounter.

Tobias looks exhausted though. More so than his mother ever looked, but he smiles. He smiles like they were long old friends. Bruce doesn’t know how to feel about this. He feels strangled. It might not entirely be guilt.

“Pardon my aunt. She doesn’t know who to blame. Everyone is a little confused.”

“Please, it’s alright.” Bruce had to pry open his mouth to reply. “I should be the one apologizing.”

The man shakes his head, sadly.

“You paid for my mother’s funeral.”

Bruce wishes he didn’t say that aloud. It jabs at his side with an unwanted feeling. Tobias looks at him, unfazed. His eyes are firm, like wood and soil.

“I’ve accepted the fact that none of this was your fault.” The man smiles, as gently as a feather. “You don’t need to apologize, Mister Wayne. She did shoot you. I’m sorry for that.”

 _All of this_ , he murmurs, _is just a horrible accident._

The two men stand, eye to eye. The burden weighs heavily on Wayne’s shoulders, and the billionaire wishes the other would break away first. Anger was easier to deal with than whatever this was. Bruce parts his lips, and it takes a long time for him to choke something out of them.

“I’m sorry.”

The other man looks at him, with sad, miserable eyes. He was still smiling.

“Don’t be. I’ve already forgiven you. As I hope you would too, for us.”

* * *

 

Sam walks into GCPD with this naïve grin on his face that makes Gordon groan out loud. He knows the youngster won’t last a month in their department, and by Friday he’s a dead piece of meat hanging off the broken building debris.

Seeing it happen is a whole lot different from expecting it to happen, and Jim, watches the faceless corpse with dismay in his expression. Bullock is another story. The man was a resident Gotham through and through. He was the city breed, who knew how to take shit, who knew that action-first policy was safer than being dead sorry. So, he pulls the trigger faster than Gordon can yell _No Harvey_ , and the masked thug goes down in a flash of smoke.

“God damn it, Bullock!” Jim growls through the dust, looking down at the pool of blood forming on the floor. “He was holding dynamite, in case you haven’t noticed!”

Although the commissioner is certain his frustration will be futile, he lets his input sink in as the detective rolls his eyes. Bullock isn’t feeling generous enough to take it on a Saturday night, walking among terrorists in a blown-up building block. It smells like smoke all around, the gunshot was bound to attract some ears.

There is a time and place for annoyance, and Gordon ditches the special units’ squad for the stairs. He ventures alone, bolting up the narrow corridors while Bullock shouts after him. Time was scarce, there’s a bomb ticking somewhere and god helps, the rest of the men could catch up.

The door is rickety, but wedged between the walls. Jim kicks it open, a bullet welcoming his entrance. Sparks fly off as the projectile bounces off in misdirection, Gordon lowers his head. The commissioner bolts forward, up the stairs, returning the gunfire the two thugs were raining down on him above the platform. He dives, dodging another bullet, and crashes hard through another door leading out of the emergency stairs.

The office clearing has half of its walls and sides missing, blown clean off for the night wind to howl past the dust. The stray documents fly around into the air, leaving Jim disorientated enough to lose his target. The wind distracts him too much. It’s too late by the time he turns around.

He sees the barrel end facing towards him, a bearded crook with a nasty shadow grinning as he puts the finger on the trigger. Jim Gordon braces for the impact, hoping it’s not his legs the bullet hits. The gun goes off with a _bang_ and it streaks. Sinister and lightning fast, it zaps past his body and lands somewhere covered in metal, Gordon realises the bastard has missed – at this range – and squints to see something red blossoming from his shooter’s stomach.

He drops with a sick crunch, face all lighting up in alarm at the pale clown face smirking down at him in dark mirth.

Gordon knows that face. That flashy suit, emerald hair, smudged crimson lips. The old commissioner jerks his gun, hairs standing on the back of his neck. Someone invited the biggest guest in the big bad fray, and he sees the pale monster smiling like a phantom. Tonight, was a long one.

The crook pulls the knife from his guts, Gordon almost yells at him to leave it in. His wound gushes with scarlet, and the thug snarls at the clown standing over his crumpled body. He lifts a shaking arm, clicking the gun pointed towards Joker’s face.

“Oh, my, you have some fight in you, don’t you?” Joker purrs, leaning closer into the point blank range. The man shivers, eyes wide up at the shadowy white face. “You are gold.”

“Stay down!” Jim barks, unsure of who he was talking to. Joker ignores him easily, grinning wide as he pulls on the gun and guides it to his head. He presses the shaking shaft up to his bare forehead, making the other man quake.

“Shoot me.” The clown commands, tugging at the gun. He can feel the violent tremble through the other’s grip. The fear is potent with every breath he takes. “Shoot me, come on, baby, what are you waiting for? Shoot me. Shoot me.”

“Stay- the- fuck- do-” Gordon attempts, but he sees the shivering crook pull the trigger. For a split second, he flinches with eyes wider than his lids. Then the commissioner notices, nothing.

Nothing. No fire, no smoke, no shot. Just a lonely pathetic click. The bastard was out of ammo.

Joker cackles, feet crashing down on the man’s face. The blood splatters onto his heels, the broken nose spurting its insides onto the soles of his shoes. Gordon fires a warning shot into the air for him to stop. He’s just about to start shouting again, when he sees a flicker of something dark flying through the sky.

And there lands the Bat, with a silent thump onto the ground. He drags the mist of debris into his entrance, the dust and moonlight makes him look less human than he was. He lands with his cloak spread out, smelling of gasoline.

Wordlessly, he punches the defeated criminal unconscious with a clean hook, before turning to the clown violently, shoving Joker’s body into the office panel. He holds the green haired fiend with his fists gripping his collar, growling into his grinning face.

“No. Killing. You promised.” He snarls, before recovering his calm. “And no more stunts like that, again.”

Jim stares at the two, flustered. Joker shrugs, as if this was something that happened on a regular basis.

“He was out of rounds.”

“I’m not taking chances.”

“Oh please, Bats.” The clown mocks a dramatic sigh, as Batman pushes his collar free. “It’s an eight-round pistol, the only ones you’ll see in Gotham. I should know. I sold it to them.”

“You sold guns to terrorists?” Gordon bursts in with alarm, sounding scandalized enough to make Joker turn his attention towards him.

“Well if you want details, it’s a rather tacky business, see.” Bruce gives Joker a warning glare, silently telling him to shut up. But the red lipped rogue continues anyway. “I don’t keep tabs on where all my gun shipments go. If I knew Roman’s goons were getting hold of them, I would have packed them some warranty.”

Jim finds the moment to feel sheepish at this bizarre situation. It wasn’t every day the Clown Prince of Crime decides he wants to save your sorry hide from getting shot at by a terrorist. Batman turns, almost apologetically, to Gordon.

“The bomb is still ticking, floor above ours. It’s a distraction for the operation going down the deposition sector down the docks. Drugs, if you want to know the trade items.”

“Drugs? Are they that important?”

“One of a kind. Look up on it. It’s trouble.”

Jim Gordon was a veteran. He wastes no time directing the men through his communication device. He leaves out the details of batman and Joker, who were already turning to the edge of wide gaping remains of a broken window.

Gordon cocks his gun at them, not entirely sure what this was going to achieve. The other two probably know this, and the Bat gives him a curt nod before swooping out, into the cold night air. The clown giggles, turning towards the older man with a bright smile that went horrifyingly good with the moonlight.

The clown waves his merry goodbye, before kicking off the edge and out into the sky.

 

* * *

 

 

“I do hope beaky will be laughing when I blow up his warehouse.”

“We’re not blowing up anything.”

Joker looks up, rather sarcastically up at Batman.

“I’m blowing it up. You can watch.”

Batman gives him a stern, scorning look. Joker shrugs.

“I’ll get you popcorn.” The clown adds.

Imagining the scent of buttered corn was a bad idea. It doesn’t go well with the rain, storming outside the tattered gothic window. The Sunday weather lady must be feeling foolish by now. The others seem glum enough against the climate darkened shadows, well dressed killers eyeing the two of them with dead cold eyes.

The soft taps upon the stairs pry them away from their thoughts, and the sound of rain drowns against Joker’s glee.

“Cobbles old chap! How are you?”

“You are one of my least favourite house guests. Uninvited, to boost.”

Oswald mutters aloud, his voice dry as his unhinged limp. He descends, from the stairs, frowning at the caped figure with a tolerable amount of disdain. The short stocky man has his own grotesque atmosphere, a calm and gentle monstrosity that Batman has learned to regard.

Penguin stands with his umbrella, a distance away from his two guests. He cocks an eyebrow up at the clown standing with a smile, expression clouding.

“You’re still alive.” He laments, eyes narrowing. “Shame.”

“You’re lights leagues away from offing me, sardines.”

Two things happen as soon as Joker pulled out his pistol, Cobblepot looks on calmly as the entire room bolts out their firearms and point them towards the pale faced maniac. Batman bristles beside Joker, fists curling into steady alarm.

“Guns down, we’re here to talk.” They hear the Bat growl.

The air is tense like knife edges flashing above their heads. Penguin’s men have no intention to back down, the threatening firearms still up in aggression.

“ _Ye-ss_ , let’s hear some facts being talked out first, shall we, Cobbles?” Joker interrupts the tension, cutting into Batman’s annoyed advance. “Did you try to kill me?”

“No.”

“Then did you have a part in the transaction of my recipe?”

“Not really, I was the ‘ _potential merchant’_.”

“Did you bribe my inside man to betray me?”

“Why would I? Your men are useless to me.” Oswald flicks a finger around his walking stick, his answers patient. “Believe it or not, I played no part in this one. All I ever did was ‘be informed’. This part of town is my turf, clown. They wanted my help, and I refused.”

“The deal wasn’t good enough for you?” Batman clocks in, making Cobblepot turn back towards him. The bird king growls a no, shaking his head.

“It’s a matter of perspective, Batman. What they offer me, couldn’t be good in the long term. I think you’ll agree with me for once, anything that has him written down somewhere on the deed-” Penguin points at Joker, “- is a terrible deal with a lot of consequences that are just not worth it.”

Batman agrees. He doesn’t have a choice.

“I don’t know what flimsy fiasco happened with you after I cut myself out of the deal. No answers will be heard from then on, gentlemen.” Penguin drawls, locking his scathing gaze with the smiling clown.

“But you know which of my men betrayed me. Who was it?” Joker asks, viciously curious.

Oswald flashes an oblivious grin, shoulders shrugging in a suave manner.

“The thing about your men, clown, is that they have zero loyalty. Do you follow?”

Joker’s expression turns a shade uglier when the words attempt a jab. Damn his bird logic, he wanted to piss on it if he could. It doesn’t matter if he had more than a dozen guns pointing at him, the clown laughs at them all with his vile tone.

“My loyalty, Ozzie, at least don’t come from toots and pointy shoed whores.”

Cobblepot chuckles darkly at the reply. It makes sense that the clown doesn’t care about the concept of loyalty. You ask his henchmen why they work for the lunatic, most of them answer with a blank frown. Half of them are insane, the other half are complicated degenerates.

“But enough with the pleasantries, who’s the black sheep?”

“I thought it was rather obvious, clown.”

Penguin holds up his hand, waving it carelessly in the air. His men put away their guns, the clicks of metal singing through the hollow cool. Joker doesn’t back down, until Batman silently puts a hand over his barrel, pushing it down under a gentle weight.

“First rule of business, there is always a price for information.”

“Name it.” Batman responds, straight onto the point.

“Let us make a deal, what say you? I have a, proposition, if you will.”

Batman lands a soft kick on Joker’s ankle, motioning him to shut his lips back up when the clown evidently had something smart to say in response to Penguin’s proposition. He allows Oswald to go on, and the Penguin pulls his lips back into a satisfied smile.

“Notice anything weird happening in the streets recently?”

“Black mask is buying his way half way through the Southern districts of Gotham.”

And his men are becoming a pain. The sellers who didn’t agree to his bargain were literally getting the bomb.

“Yes, and do you know why?”

“He’s going big on a human trafficking business, setting up brothels in the red zone, making mountains of cash off the prostitution empire.”

“You’ve done your research. Good.”

There is a faint crumple in the shadows, and a man walks up to the middle of the room with a briefcase. He holds the small luggage up for the two men. Penguin nods at him, allowing the man to open it up.

“Meet the beauty that made it all possible.”

Joker reacts first at the glass bottle, an elegantly decorated piece of eccentricity. A fake gold dispenser shines from the top, two identical snakes delicately carved and coiling down the convex surface. It holds what looks like liquid perfume, and the molten shade of greenish yellow is all too familiar to feel comfortable.

It strikes Batman when he understands what it was, and Joker is too quick for him when he stretches out his arms and sprays the liquid on his wrists. The mist was small, but the fragrance is intoxicating. Even from a distance, it wedges out something delirious from the insides of his head, as if someone struck a trident into his brain and pulled something out.

Joker sniffs at his skin, and breaks into a violent cough. The clown shivers away from the fragrance. Batman wastes no time snatching away the bottle. He plops the glass back onto the briefcase before pulling Joker up by his arm. Something hot runs through his innards when he feels Joker’s weight shift onto his grip.

There is something murderous inside the green glint of the clown’s eyes, it makes a few men standing near him back away.

“Tell me who fucked with my recipe.” He snarls softly.

“You’re looking for _Abraham “Juggler_ ”, the man without a face.”

 _“Juggler_?”

“Black mask’s new drug lord. He runs the cartel under his name, his franchise. The man came waltzing into the whorehouse business with his new shiny concoction not a few weeks ago, quite recent.”

The bat stares down, eyes cold at the glass bottle. The name doesn’t ring a bell, none of Roman’s thugs that terrorized the business block in town lured to the pronouns.

“Now this is a problem.” The crime lord continues, jabbing his umbrella into the floor. “A nuisance, bad for business, and turf. The drug is causing a landslide rift in my trade. I have enough to deal with the mob, thank you. It’s not long until our old friend Two-face digs himself out of the madhouse, and then. Then, boys, we are going to have one hell of a problem, here in Gotham.”

Oh, the ringing truth. Batman uncurls his fists, reaching out for the briefcase and taking it into his hold. Cobblepot makes a small gesture in the form of a nod, his head clicking softly under his old-fashioned hat.

“I will point you to some of the directions I know. All you need to do is put down the business.”

The deal is sealed, and there is nothing left to discuss. Batman makes his way out from the isle of edgy killers, towards the exit. Joker turns to follow him out, and takes a few steps forward before stopping abruptly. He turns a full circle, back around at Penguin, who lifts his head up to meet his question.

“Juggler,” Joker starts, the name rolling on his tongue with distaste. “Did he buy, or take?”

Oswald Cobblepot answers with a frown.

“Depends on which, you are asking about,” and points a meaty finger at his pale dark face, “because, your recipe was never in the bargain.”

 

_“You’re the one he bought, specifically.”_

 

* * *

 

 

Bruce watches the blood pour out of his nose. It runs down his chin, and drops onto the sink.

The mirror reflects his blank face. A man stares back at him, expressionless. The air smells like blood. Joker takes an empty gulp, like a goldfish. Just to taste the fishiness wafting through nothing. He presses a finger down at his tongue, staring distastefully at Bruce. The bleeding man pulls his head around, where Joker sat crouched into a ball in the corner of his bathroom, lolling his head and looking up at him with a Cheshire grin.

Joker pulls his legs closer up to his chest, chin resting on the tops of his knees.

“You look ridiculous.” The clown giggles.

Bruce shakes his head, turning the tap to wash away the blood off his face. He loathes the scent lingering inside his senses.

“It doesn’t work like an aphrodisiac. But it’s not completely hallucinates either.”

Wayne makes his observations as plain as possible, the lab analyses gives him the literal results, but not the practical results. The last thing he wanted to do was test the drug, and he took careful precautions to not expose himself to the liquid vice.

But the scent, the scent was deadly. An odourless, formless something lingers around the bottle, and it causes a migraine in his head. Bruce isn’t sure if all sex drugs were supposed to have that kind of effect, and he’s certain it was abnormal.

“I don’t understand why it’s so demanded in the vanity markets.”

Joker rolls his eyes.

“Pumpkin, you do know how the prostitution gig works, don’t you?”

“I know the system, well enough.”

“Not the system, the drug part. Do you need some insight?”

“Alright.” Bruce whips away the water off his face with a towel, throwing it back on the rack as Joker grins wide. “Lecture me.”

“You know, partially, how my venom works, right?”

It would have been ironic if he didn’t. “It blocks the flow of blood by contracting and stressing the muscles. The veins and arteries are blocked up until they burst.”

“Excellent answer, Brucie boy,” Joker claps his hands, in a giddy fashion. “Essentially, it’s a stimulant. It’s what the new drug is supposed to do, too. The basis of it works the same way as my original venom.”

“Forced emotional output, and physical stress followed by involuntary release.”

“ _Exact-ly_. Forced emotions, and then the ‘ _release_ ’.” Joker crawls across the tile on all fours, his conversational gestures randomly flying off as he follows Bruce away from the sink and near to the shower.

Bruce is thoughtful, connecting the alluding ideas the clown was getting to. It somehow makes sense, what it concludes to. He takes the shirt off his torso, throwing it somewhere that Alfred might find later.

“See, death and climax is really the same thing.” The pale man continues, cocking his head to one side as he eyes Wayne unbuckle his belt. “The release is pleasure.”

The release is the burn. The thrill of holding it in, and then letting it burst, being squeezed out of life, keeping it in until it leaks through the gap and ends up exploding. The release is what mattered in the entirety of the two substances, and it is almost genius. Joker himself must admit, even the last guy who cross contaminated his recipe wasn’t smart enough to come up with something like this. He almost feels proud. Almost.

Bruce is still wordless and unusually quiet, even for him. Joker peeks at his expression through his messy hair. The man looks stiffer than stone.

 

“Do you know how many people you killed with it?” He finally asks.

 

Joker blinks. The tap turns, and the hot water starts to steam against the glass.

“No.” The clown answers.

 

The man walks into the shower, his jet-black hair drenching into the steam. Joker follows his lines, sees the way his naked muscles flex when Bruce looks at him over his shoulder. The scars, the damaged wounds from a long time ago, the hardened lines of everything that made this man what he was. Joker holds it in his eyes, and his eyes, shades of beautiful dark blue.

 

 

“Do you care?” He asks again.

 

The clown smiled, almost innocently.

 

 

 

“No.”

 

 

Because they will always be the same kind of monsters.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 


End file.
